A Veronica, Not a Heather
by decently sane
Summary: He wants to see her again. God, does he. But he'll see her on Monday. But he doesn't want to wait until Monday, and, despite the fact that he likes her, he starts it like he starts one of his flings- and, frankly, how one of his flings often ends- he climbs through her window./JD's perspective until Chandler dies.


For the first instant he sees her, he thinks that she's just like her bitch friends. Maybe her name's Heather, too. But then he can tell that she's not. She has this air about her, almost the same that he does, and he appreciates that.

He knows that he's attractive, and he knows that girls like a bad boy. He's been to enough schools to know that. He's had his fair share of flings with girls because of it. And she approaches him, and he knows exactly why.

She's a Veronica. Not a Heather. Thank God.

And she asks the stupidest question that he's ever heard, and he tells her as much, but he can't help but think that nothing she could say to him would be stupid.

He sees her at the Snappy Snack Shack, and somehow that makes him like her more. So he flirts, and she slips right into it with him. They have a rhythm with each other, and it makes his heart pound.

"I don't really like my friends," she jokes, as he realizes with deep disappointment that she isn't here alone, and that he can't ditch this Remington party and come with him, somewhere far away from right here.

"I don't like your friends either," he agrees smoothly back, and she smiles, and he feels proud for an instant. She leaves, and he's glad he bought her a Slushie when he did. He wants to see her again. God, does he. But he'll see her on Monday.

But he doesn't want to wait until Monday, and, despite the fact that he likes her, he starts it like he starts one of his flings- and, frankly, how one of his flings often ends- he climbs through her window.

He doesn't remember how he found her address, and frankly, he doesn't care- but neither does she, it would seem. Thank God for teenage hormones, sometimes, at least.

"You up for a match?" he asks. He doesn't play croquet- he knows how to, because the public school P.E. curriculum has strange requirements- but it seems everyone in Sherwood does. And he's willing to if he can spend some time with Veronica, especially alone at night.

When they start playing, it at first is a genuine game of croquet. They flirt, of course, but that's all it is, until Veronica makes a dare.

"I'll bet you can't make that shot," she says slyly.

He raises his eyebrows. "Is that so, sweetheart?" he asks. "I may not play as much as you, but I can hit a ball."

"If you make that, I'll kiss you." Her voice is intoxicating, and her promise is not one that he dislikes by any means.

"Then you better be prepared for a kiss," he responds boldly. He lines up and hits the ball, and before the ball stops Veronica pulls him by the collar and plants her lips on his.

He drops his mallet and cups her face in his hands. Her lip gloss tastes like vanilla and something else sugary that he can't quite name, and her breath tastes slightly of alcohol from the party she had escaped from.

It's a very nice kiss, and when they part, he tries to compose himself quickly and act just as cool as he was before she grabbed him.

"Well, it seems I didn't make it," he comments, nodding to him ball, which had bounced off the hoop. "You got a bit too excited there, Veronica."

"Yeah," she responds. "But you were pretty close." She doesn't take her eyes off of him to see what he's referring to. "Maybe you can win if you have some incentive." Her eyes gleam in a beautifully mischievous way, and his heart starts pounding harder as he meets her gaze. "How about a game of strip croquet?"

Part of him tells him not to- that he likes her, and this might end up as just a fling if it goes on like this, and that she's only bold enough to suggest it because she's still a bit tipsy from Remington. But the other part of him is too busy appreciating her tone, her confidence, her face, her body, _her._

He may have lost, but they both end up losing their clothes by the end of the game.

He doesn't feel bad afterward because he doesn't feel at all inclined to leave when it's over. Veronica still wants to talk with him, she's still flirting, and, best of all, _he__'s_ still wanting to talk to her. In between kissing, of course.

She complains to him about Heather Chandler, who was apparently the one demanding Cornnuts earlier that evening (Had this all happened in one day? He can't believe that.) which meant she was the one that pulled Veronica away from him for the first time, and he felt a stab of jealousy and protectiveness. That bitch. But Veronica insists that she still wants to be friends with her, so he lets her vent.

"I say we just grow up, be adults, and die," she says, and he feels deliriously happy for a moment because, although he knows she didn't mean it that way, it sounded like she wanted to grow up, be adults, and die with _him_.

"But before that, I'd like to see Heather Chandler puke her guts out," she adds.

_She'll do more than puke her guts out_, he vows to himself. He vows to her that he'll help.

They go to the bitch's house the next morning. He feels jittery, but he forces himself to keep cool. He knows what he wants to do, he doesn't know if he can go through with it, but he also knows that he might just do anything for Veronica. The bitch has promised to destroy Veronica's reputation, and unlike him, she has a decent one to uphold.

He grabs the no-rust-buildup and phrases it like a joke to Veronica, but it's more of an offer. A silent way of telling her that he'd do it for her.

"Don't be a dick," she says. "That stuff'll kill her." She still looks serious, but he wants to be sure.

As she keeps moving around the kitchen, he pulls down a cup and pours it in. "I say we go with Big Blue here," he insists.

"What are you talking about? She would never drink anything that looked like that anyway," she responds. He could tell what she wanted though. She wanted them to be more thorough.

He pulled down a mug. "So we'll put it in this," he says, dumping the cup into it. "She won't be able to see what she's drinking." He smirks.

Veronica rolled her eyes and moved next to him, carrying the orange juice and milk. "Let me get a cup, jerk," she says, her voice playful. "Milk and orange juice will do quite nicely."

"You chicken?" he taunts, trying to make sure.

"You're not funny," she responds, her tone losing the joking nature.

_I know. I'm serious._

"I'm sorry," he apologizes anyway, and he kisses her, and she kisses back, because they just can't resist each other.

And when they start up the stairs, he realizes that Veronica grabbed the cup filled with drain cleaner. He takes the cup, because he would rather this be on his conscious than her's.

And when the bitch drains the cup, he takes great pleasure in knowing that he just killed someone that had hurt Veronica. He decides that he's in love with her as Heather Chandler hits the floor.


End file.
